


Your Inside Bones

by CrumblingAsh



Series: open [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Best Friends, Brian Banner's A+ Parenting, Gen, Hurt Bruce, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Pre-Slash, Teenage Tony, Tony Stark Has A Heart, teenage bruce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-11 20:49:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16860058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrumblingAsh/pseuds/CrumblingAsh
Summary: Even though Tony has moved to Italy, he's still Bruce's best friend.And best friends look out for each other.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **prompt:** _Could you write a fic with teen!Tony and teen!Bruce, where they're best friends but one of them has to move to another country so all they have is phone calls and the internet, but it's super hard for them because of Bruce's abusive father, the high expectations in school work and because they're forced into social isolation because being together gave them enough courage and strength to interact with others but now they're separated everything has gone to shit. Not that I speak from experience._

* * *

 

 

When the ringing cuts off in the middle of its second set, “Tony?” leaves Bruce’s mouth in a rushed whisper, fraught and excited.

 

It’s midnight, with a handful of unimportant minutes after, and with the snow falling in joyful swirls, the sidewalks of the city are relatively clear, and completely void of anyone who would want to bother a sixteen-year-old kid looking rundown in an overly large green hoodie and ripped jeans (it’s nice, a little, to pretend that he dresses this way on purpose to avoid the second glances that would bring him trouble). His breath puffs visibly in front of him, little catches of smoke from a cigarette he doesn’t smoke, more a fog that temporarily blurs his vision that he wishes he could fall into. Should he not have called? Maybe he should have waited. Maybe Tony had wanted to call later, and Bruce had ruined it by calling now-

 

“Banner?” The voice on the other end of the phone is just as excited, and the shreds of anxiety that had been creeping around him fall away with the snow. In his ear, Bruce can hear Tony’s quiet, normal chuckle. “Bruce! Thank _God_ , I’ve been up for _hours_ , it’s ridiculous, there’s absolutely no one here worth talking to. Have I told you that? I think I’ve told you that.”

 

“You’re in Italy, I highly doubt there is no one there of at least somewhat worthwhile intelligence to converse with,” he responds dryly as he turns a corner, tripping down a short familiar alley. “And what do you mean ‘hours’? It’s six in the morning there.”

 

“Sleep is for the weak! Or for the w-e-e-k _days_ , rather. Saturdays are universal.” Bruce can practically see Tony’s eye roll, the sharp _bitch, I’m right_ (trademarked, unofficially) smirk on his face. He feels better than he has all week. “Are you outside?”

 

“He says he can hear me on the phone from the other side of the house.” He trips a little over a loose brick – where the hell do the dumb things even come from, anyway? “You know how he is if you wake him up. Mom said I can go out as long as I’m talking to you. And here I am. Outside, talking to you-.”

 

“-Wandering around Manhattan at a quarter past midnight, which I don’t think is what your mom meant. But hey, she should have been more specific, right? Right. At least tell me you’re wearing a coat.”

 

“I don’t think you’re allowed to judge in any regards to self-preservation, actually.”

 

There’s a huff on the other side of the line. “The hoodie, then. And if it’s the hoodie…” The pause dredges a sense of guilt up Bruce’s throat as the alley ends to streetlights and the welcome of the other side of the block.

 

(There’s a Captain America action figure, aged and paint-chipped, on his desk, aimed toward his bed so that he can see it every night – Cap is missing his shield, which is half way across the world and six hours in the future and “totally not” on a chain around Tony’s neck. His father comes home drunk four to five times a week, and with the time difference, there’s no one to call while he huddles in the closet to wait out the fights that erupt between his parents, no best friend to open a bedroom window for him to crawl through and hide away for a few days, face freshly bruised. He goes to school and trips over peer confrontation, hands in half-assed assignments because there’s no competition. Floats through days and nights like they don’t really exist because there’s nothing that marks their passing except the sun. He’s failing Latin, he loves Latin, but Tony’s not in the class anymore, leaving nothing except an empty desk in front of him to stare at. He eats lunches alone when he decides to actually eat).

 

When Tony speaks again, his voice is a little more quiet. “How bad is it, Bruce?”

 

 _The loneliness_ , Bruce wonders, _or the welts?_ His back throbs on cue, and he tilts his head toward the sky and the snow, giving the simple answer with a shrug.

 

“I miss you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **prompt:** _Could you continue on with the last story you posted? The one with teenage Bruce and Tony?_

* * *

* * *

 

 

##  **_Then_ **

 

_“You wanna know the stupid part?” Tony rotated his ankle sideways, his foot obediently flopping outward to lightly kick at Bruce’s shoe. “I don’t even hate Howard.”_

 

_His friend snorted softly, moving his own foot to nudge him right back. “That’s not stupid, Tony.”_

 

_“Isn’t it, though? I mean, what fifteen-year-old doesn’t hate a father who isn’t a father?” It was hard to shrug in the nest of pillows they’d accumulated on Bruce’s bed, but he managed enough to feel satisfied. “He doesn’t like me, so it’d be fair. But the most I can drag up is like …” He threw up a hand to wave it in the air wildly. “Angry indifference.”_

 

_Bruce caught his hand before it could slap his face, slowly bringing it back down to the bed. “Well, what Howard usually exhibits is angry indifference,” he offered sagely, not letting go of Tony’s wrist. “Maybe you’re just meeting him tit for tat. Can’t hate something that doesn’t hate you.”_

 

_The ceiling of Bruce’s bedroom was stained from old pipe leaks, yellow blotches on otherwise pure white paint. In the cast shadows of the growing evening’s setting sun, the aged imperfection was almost hypnotizing to stare at._

 

_“Is resenting something the same thing as hating it, though?” He wondered aloud. “If you know that you would throw your kid away if you wouldn’t be arrested for it, is that … are there different types of hate?”_

 

_“I … ” It was Bruce’s turn to shrug, his movement a little more subtle, but enough that it jostled the collection of pillows under Tony’s head, rolling them closer. “My exact thoughts? No psychiatric kindergarten teacher bullshit?”_

 

_“Um, duh?” The ceiling should probably be redone, but Tony couldn’t really see Bruce living in a flawless, perfect place._

 

_“I think if you could stand to personally cause hurt to something, on some level, you hate it. And you’re right, you don’t hate your dad. Because you couldn’t hurt him.”_

 

_“I … huh. What happened to the ‘angry indifference’ thing?”_

 

_“I did say he usually exhibited it. Emphasis on usually. Either way, it’s still not stupid. It’s okay not to hate Howard.”_

 

_Tony opened his mouth to speak, again, when the door creaked open, effectively silencing them both as Bruce tensed violently beside him. It was only when Mrs. Banner’s kindly smiling face appeared through the open space that his friend relaxed, and that Tony realized his free hand had formed itself into a tight, anticipatory fist._

 

_“Tony!” She sounded so happy to see him that he couldn’t fight the smile that cracked like lightning across his face. Bruce’s hand tightened gently around his wrist in understanding. “I didn’t know you were here today, sweetheart! I was just coming in to tell Bruce that supper was almost ready. Chicken and noodles – would you like to stay?”_

 

_“I-.” Jarvis had the weekend off, spending time with Anna at the nursing home. The only food waiting for him back at the mansion were leftovers he’d have to sneak after midnight if he wanted to avoid Howard. “Would that be okay?”_

 

_“Of course.” Bruce’s mom laughed softly, shaking her head with amusement that always made his chest feel lighter. His mother never looked like that anymore. “I’ll set another place at the table. It’ll be done in about fifteen minutes.”_

 

_“Mom?” Bruce called out as she started to step from the door. Tony cast a glance toward the younger boy, noting that while his body had eased, the corners of his eyes were still tight, an easy furrow in his brow that he was all too familiar with._

 

_“Your father has to work late tonight,” she answered without being asked, smile slipping just a little despite that her voice stayed bright. “Fifteen minutes. Don’t forget to wash up.”_

 

_“… You know what, buddy?” Tony whispered as the door closed again, Mrs. Banner gone from sight. The tension seeped from Bruce in an audible wave._

 

_“What?”_

 

_“I hate **your** dad.”_

 

_“… Yeah.” Bruce snorted, finally letting go of his wrist to slide his hands over his own face. The faint echoes of the bruise on his arm were vivid in the movement.  
_

 

_“Yeah. Me too.”_

* * *

 

##  _**Now** _

 

The connected Skype screen is awake, but dark.

 

Tony’s heart sinks.

 

“You forgot to take the electrical tape off of your webcam,” he says into the microphone lightly, wincing at the burst of static that trails after it. “And your mic sucks. Still. Your mic still sucks.”

 

“Not all of us can afford shiny new Macs, Tony,” Bruce’s voice calls back after a few seconds. It sounds a little distant, as if he’s on the other side of the room from his computer. “How’d dinner go with your dad tonight? Or … last night, I guess for you now. It’s … four in the morning there now, right?”

 

Evasion Skill Level: Bruce Banner.

 

“Oh, dinner went great,” he answers casually, casting a look around his own room to the soundtrack of whatever Bruce is doing. “We sat down at the beyond five-star restaurant, he spent half of the time on discussing business on his phone, and the other half lecturing me on responsibility. I drank just enough wine that I eventually snapped at him that he has no idea what responsibility is, because when tested with a child he failed the lesson, and got up and left. And it’s four, yes.”

 

All noise on the other end stops.

 

“… You did not.”

 

Tony can’t help but laugh, slightly hysterical from the high of the event that he hadn’t been able to blow off without talking to Bruce. “I did, it was great. Terrifying, but great. But seriously, enough about me. I _Skyped_ you for a reason, Banner. I want to see you open your present, not just hear the ripping of the wrapping paper.”

 

The sound starts up again.

 

“There’s wrapping paper?” Bruce asks curiously.

 

Evasion Skill Level: _Robert_ Bruce Banner.

 

“Yes, there’s wrapping paper, it’s _inside_ of the box, Bruce. Come _on_.” He taps against the speakers with an exaggerated whine.

 

“Tony…”

 

“I don’t care what it looks like, Bruce, I haven’t seen you in weeks, and it’s your damned _birthday_. You don’t get to be ashamed of stuff you ** _shouldn’t_** feel ashamed for anyway on your _birthday_. Take the tape off.”

 

“… It’s a sticker, not tape,” is the mumbled response, but the semantics don’t matter as the speakers erupt with the shuffling of movement. Tony feels a sense of needy greed as he watches the screen hungrily for the sight of a welcoming face free of the social judgment and professional disregard that have made up the expressions of this new country in his presence. Shit, he just wants his _friend._

 

And then the darkness is pulled away to a burst of color, and Tony remembers why his heart had sank before.

 

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Bruce says instantly, the glare of the screen on his glasses nearly completely blocking his eyes.

 

It does nothing to block the ring of bruises around his throat, heavy and large and finger-shaped, as if Bruce has rubbed his own skin raw and tried to cover the markings up with dirt. They spread up the right side of his jaw, stopping just shy of encroaching on his eye, as if he’d been held down by his neck like a dog and forced to take the hit.

 

No, not _as if_. Tony blinks rapidly against the immediate tears of rage that assault his eyes. _Exactly like_. Exactly, he knows, what had happened.

 

“Well, it _looks_ like you should be in a hospital on a ventilator, and since I can see that you’re quite comfortable in your room, you’re obviously right,” he says dryly, but can’t keep the humor. “Just … _fuck_ , Bruce.”

 

And Bruce, because he’s Bruce, just smiles a little.

 

“Yeah,” the younger teen says in agreement. “He got a bit mad when he saw my midterm report card. You know how it goes.”

 

Unfortunately, he does.

 

The memories of the two of them hiding out in Tony’s room, too young and too little, building blanket forts with Jarvis’ help, ignoring the bruises on Bruce’s face and the way he’d flinch at every sudden movement, are still crystal-clear in Tony’s mind.

 

He’d been a safe place for Bruce to run to, before they’d moved.

 

“I’m okay,” Bruce continues softly, rubbing the back of his head, drawing him back. “My mom already put stuff on them, and he’s out of the house for the rest of the week. Staying at the lab on the cot or something. I’m _okay_ , Tony. Now.” He reaches down, lifting a cardboard box onto his lap and in perfect view of the camera. It stands out starkly against the black cloth of his overly-large hoodie. Fuck. “Am I opening this or not?”

 

Tony isn’t there for Bruce anymore.

 

He chokes down everything else he wants to say. “Well, I didn’t send it just for you to stare at the box. Yes, open it.”

 

Bruce’s smile grew a little more genuine on the screen, and he reached over to pluck his orange box cutter seemingly from the other side of his desk. “By ‘wrapping paper’ you don’t mean ‘covered in duct tape’, do you?”

 

“That was _one time_. And it was your thirteenth birthday, jokes were mandatory.”

 

“I ended up breaking the actual present, if I remember correctly, trying to get it of- _really_ , Tony?” The box had obediently fallen open to the gleaming blade, revealing an explosion of colorful Captain America wrapping paper underneath. Despite his tone, Bruce is now full-out grinning.

 

So is Tony. In this lighting, in the way his friend has his head ducked in embarrassed pleasure, the bruises can’t be seen. “Just because you’re seventeen now doesn’t mean you can’t have cool wrapping paper. But that’s not the point. I didn’t send you wrapping paper in a box – I didn’t _just_ send you wrapping paper in a box,” he corrects quickly at the obvious lift in Bruce’s eyebrows. “It’s obviously wrapped around something, a something which is your present, and which I would be very happy to see you open, so if you would do that.”

 

“Always so impatient.” Bruce murmurs.

 

“Bite me, open it.”

 

“… You know I’m proud of you, right? For standing up to Howard like that?” The other stalls.

 

His face burns. “It’s not like I told him to get bent or fuck off or anything,” he protests over the slow roll of pride in his chest. Damn Bruce. “I just, it wasn’t anything-.”

 

“You verbalized a problem you have with him,” Bruce interrupts softly. Tony falls momentarily quiet. “That’s something. Any step forward counts. You can be proud of it. _I’m_ proud of you for it.”

 

“…Won’t make him change anything.”

 

“It’s not really about him though, is it?”

 

They stare at each other for a minute, through a computer screen that connects them together over six hours, one ocean, and a handful of countries. And hell, all Tony really wants right now is to be on Bruce’s bed, staring up at the water-stained ceiling and talking about useless things like before; or hidden under a tent of blankets secured by a skeleton ribcage of chairs, using a flashlight to go over the wonders of a college-level physics textbook. He wants to stupidly wrap himself around his best friend and just be there. 

 

He clears his throat, shakes his head, and forcefully demands, “Open your present”, shattering the moment.

 

Bruce snorts, fingers carefully separate the sheets of paper from the package.

 

Tony’s fingers fiddle subconsciously with the plastic and rubber Captain America shield hanging around his neck, and distantly he wonders if Bruce still has the action figure on his desk – the camera is angled wrong to see.

 

“… _Tony_.”

 

Amusement.

                                           

“Now, Bruce,” he says quickly, refocusing. “Don’t get sentimental or some shit. I got it just as much for me as for you. I don’t like that crack of static your mic keeps screaming in my ears. And it’s customized, so it can be taken back. Oops.”

 

Bruce’s face is unimpressed as he pulls the _new, shiny_ Macbook up from the paper, a shadowed decal of Captain America in the center, the Apple logo in the center of his chest instead of a star. “Tony,” he repeats.

 

Only this time it’s a little softer, not matching the annoyance in his expression. His head tilts, moving the glare on his glasses enough that Tony can see the brown eyes beneath them.

 

Thank you, they say silently.

 

“You’re an idiot,” is what Bruce says out loud, gentle and fond and a little raspy. His hand makes an aborted movement upward, as if he had meant to massage his neck before remembering that he can be seen.

 

The smile on Tony’s face is strained but no less genuine. “Happy birthday, big guy.”

**Author's Note:**

> (cross-posted on tumblr, circa 2015)


End file.
